We've got AIDS
by Frafarello
Summary: Note: none of the characters are mine. They belong to a really cool dead man. Anyway. This is the first chapter of a series from the play RENT; histories on each of the characters. Rated R for language and content.
1. We've got AIDS

Most places around the world, it was still at three in the morning. But in New York City, East Village, life never stopped. In fact, a whole new society of people stirred as the sun vanished. Once the well-to-do and moral people closed their doors for the night, the streets filled with bohemians, junkies, and starving artists looking for some semblance of pleasure. Vices could be enjoyed anywhere by anyone, and Roger Davis was no exception.

It was just moments before three when the young, struggling rock star managed to stumble up to April's door. Her apartment was near the loft apartment shared by Mark, Maureen, Collins, and Benny. A raging headache and crawling skin were the physical evidences of his fading high, brought on by his vice of choice; heroine. Cold, tingling fingers dug deep into his tight pocket for a key. Finally locating the sharp metal with a soft grunt, Roger managed to jam the key into the lock after the third dizzy attempt. His vision blurred briefly, his head pounding violently. Letting his head drop against the door, Roger raised his arm and looked at the track marks all over his arms. i What the hell am I doing, /i he asked himself for the tenth time in the last two hours.

Roger had been a junkie for almost five years, and it was killing him. He knew it, April knew it, his friends knew it; that didn't stop him. Mark and Maureen kept begging him to quit, and the instant Collins had figured it out, the man had almost pulverized him, verbally and physically. "What the hell do you think you are doing, Roger?! You're fucking i killing /i yourself!" That had been an unpleasant conversation, and every time he shot up, those words rang in his mind until the heroine silenced them.

Shaking his head in a feeble attempt to clear it, the regretfully young junkie pushed open the door and fell into the living room with a loud clatter. Sprawled on the floor in a graceless heap, Roger kicked the door shut with his foot and lay still. Something about staying prone on the floor spoke of being the intelligent choice, so he simply let himself drift off to sleep, shutting out the world and the pain of reality.

It was nearly noon when a sudden, unexpected slap across the face, accompanied by a loud shriek of protest, brought Roger back to consciousness with a painful jolt. Deep blue eyes cracked open only to quickly shut again against the bright light. Slowly this time, those eyes opened again to see Mark and Collins standing over him. "That wasn't necessary, Collins. Is he ok?" someone asked. A woman, presumably Maureen. Groaning softly, the blond stirred and blinked a few times to try and truly clear his vision. Someone had moved him to the couch and covered him in a blanket while he slept. He tried to sit up, but found himself pinned to the couch by two strong, resolute hands; one white, one black.

"Oh no you don't, dumbass," reprimanded a deep baritone. Collins came into view as Roger turned his head in what felt like slow motion. "Feel fortunate that Mark is the one who found you a five this morning sprawled on April's living room floor.

"Why?" he croaked. His throat felt like it was on fire. He was surprised he actually made any noise at all.

"Because I would have kicked your sorry ass until the Second Coming," the man growled, fingers tightening on his shoulder. "If these drugs don't kill you, I will."

"Collins!" Maureen hissed. She rose from her position across the room. "You could be a i little /i nicer."

"Why? You know as well as I do that Roger is killing himself with these drugs. You and Mark babying him isn't helping." At this point, Mark had been wise enough to step back to avoid becoming collateral damage.

"Neither is your shouting and threatening! The poor boy is suffering and needs our help! Not your anger!" Maureen now stood in Mark's place, hands clenched tightly into fists at her sides.

"What he needs is a lobotomy!" Collins was digging his fingers into Roger's shoulder with bruising force.

"You two argue like a married couple, and you're making my headache worse. Not to mention the fact that you're bruising my shoulder," the man in question managed to say. He grabbed hold of Collins' wrist and pushed it away. Despite the soft, whiny protests of the brunette, Roger sat up, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Shit...I need some water."

Mark, wishing to leave the vicinity and quickly, lifted his hand in acknowledgement and vanished into the kitchen. Maureen knelt at Roger's feet, resting her chin on his knees and gazing up at him with sad green eyes. "Roger, honey--"

"Don't start with me, Maureen," he snarled, eyes closed again, brows slightly furrowed. "I've heard it all, and don't want to hear it again."

"You're gonna keep hearing it until you kick the habit." Collins leaned on the edge of the couch, hovering over Roger. "You're the dumbass who's got heroine for a vice."

"Well, we all have our vices, don't we?" Roger said with a soft, almost invisible not of bitterness. The black man stiffened with a quiet, sharp intake of breath. "Don't we?" he asked again. Somewhere in the back of his drug-hazed mind, he knew his words were hurtful, but he really didn't care at that point. Roger had had enough of Collins' lectures and physical abuse; it was time to fight back.

"I suppose we all do," Collins agreed. Strong fingers began to scratch at the couch.

Something had passed between those two with just those few sentences. Maureen felt slightly out of the loop and was about to seek clarification when Mark returned with a glass of water and a couple pieces of toast. "Here, Roger. I brought you some water and some--"Mark paused when he saw the look on Collins' face. "I missed something."

"Nothing you need to worry about," Roger said softly as he turned his head to look up at Mark and off an obviously forced smile. "You have water and what?"

Not entirely certain he believed Roger, Mark shrugged and sat down beside the exhausted man. At the pained grimace on Roger's face, he said, "Once you eat this, you can take some Advil or something."

"As long as you promise not to get addicted to that, too," the black man muttered.

"Go fuck yourself, Collins," Roger snapped, taking the water and toast. He bit into the warm bread harshly, reveling in the sharp prick of the toast.

"Will you two please knock it off?" Maureen said wearily. "Or at least wait until we leave?" The young performer rose from the floor and returned to her chair across the room. "Where's April?" she asked after a few minutes of silence. "We were going to go shopping today."

"I don't know," Roger responded around a mouthful of toast with a small shrug. "I was expecting her to be here, but I guess she's not."

"Hm. That's weird. April never forgets our monthly shopping day." Raking her fingers through her curly dark brown hair, Maureen shrugged. "Pookie, we should go."

Roger snorted softly even as Mark hit him in the shoulder. "Pookie? Since when have you taken to calling me that?" But he rose anyway, eyeing Collins' hard expression. "Just...don't leave any blood anywhere, you two. Roger...you know how we feel about this. You're killing yourself."

Not wishing to dignify that comment with an answer, the young rocker stubbornly stared at his plate, noting with some regret the way his hands shook. But he refused to respond. Maureen placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "You know we all love you, Roger. Call me if you hear from April." Tipping her head to the side, she indicated for Mark to follow. The two left, leaving Collins and Roger alone.

Another five minutes passed in silence; all that could be heard was the sound of Roger eating his toast. Once he was finished, he rose on unsteady legs and went to the kitchen in search of a painkiller. "If you're going to rip into me, hurry up and do it; I need to go home."

With a soft sigh, Collins pushed off the couch and watched Roger move stiffly around. "Look at yourself, Roger. You look like shit, you're in pain...how is this a good thing? Do you have any idea how much you're hurting us? Hurting yourself? Hurting April? How many times a i day /i does she beg you to stop? The only reason she hasn't left you yet is because she loves you. More than anything, April loves you."

"You don't have to tell me that, Collins. I know that she loves me." Having taking his painkiller, Roger now leaned most of his weight on the counter top, shaking fingers spread to balance out the weight on the cool marble.

"Then why won't you quit? Dammit, Roger, I hate watching you suffer like this!" He sighed and shifted the woven hat on his head. "I know it's not about me, but...why can't you quit? I don't understand why it's so hard to just...go to a rehab center."

"It's not as simple as you make it out to be, Collins. I've i tried /i to quit. But I can't." For the first time, Roger let himself sound defeated, weak in front of Collins. "I can't..."

Touched, the man let out a quiet, resigned sigh and stepped into the kitchen alongside his blond friend. "Roger...you know that I'm here to help you. I may not have a lot of money, but..."

"Yeah, I know..." Exhausted, irritated, and pained, Roger let his head hang limply, dark eyes closed. The two men stood in Roger's girlfriend's kitchen in an apologetic silence before Collins spoke again.

"Have you had any success with those songs?"

"No. I tried yesterday, but nothing would come to me. I ended up just plucking out random Dave Matthews songs." The corners of his lips curled up just slightly.

A dry chuckle was the response he heard before Collins offered, "Class starts soon. Do you want a ride back to your place?"

"I could probably use the walk, so no thanks." Slowly, Roger straightened up, stacking one vertebrae on top of the other. His world spun suddenly and Collins reached out to catch him, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other grabbing onto the edge of the counter to prevent a complete collapse. "Then again...maybe I need that ride home." Collins' chest was warm and comfortable; Roger could hear and feel his friend's heart beating deep inside of him. It was soothing.

"I think you do too. Come on." Setting his tired friend upright and on his own two feet, Collins kept one hand between Roger's shoulder blades. Concerned chocolate brown eyes watched the blond sway on his feet. "Can you walk?"

"I think I need a little help." One hand flailed a little, searching for something to hold. Upon finding Collins' hand, he leaned heavily on it, taking a cautious step forward. "Ok. Here we go."

"Is there anything you want to take with you?" Collins followed closely behind his stumbling friend.

Pausing for a moment, Roger considered that question. He had a small stash tucked away, and almost turned towards the guest room but stopped himself. Collins would murder him in his sleep if he even tried it, and Roger was already in enough pain. "No," he said sharply, sharper than he intended.

The pause was so long, and the answer to abrupt that Collins considered questioning it. However, he decided against that course of action; he probably didn't want to know anyway. Together, the two of them made slow, staggering progress down to Collins' car, almost falling down the stairs at least twice. "You know that just because I'm helping you, that doesn't mean I'm done thrashing you for being a dumbass," Collins said as he helped Roger into the car.

"I would be disappointed if you were," he said wearily. Eyes of midnight blue fluttered closed as sleep overtook his abused body.

Despite the fact that Roger only lived a few blocks away, it took nearly 20 minutes to finally arrive outside his apartment. Overhead, the sky was a foreboding grey that promised rain soon. People crowded the sidewalk and street, moving at a constant, quick pace. A soft hand on his shoulder stirred Roger. He blinked a few times and smiled. "Thanks, Collins."

"Yeah, sure. Do you need some help upstairs?"

"No, I should be good." Carefully opening the door, Roger stepped out and turned back to look at Collins. "I'll...see you, I guess."

"Yeah. I still think you're a dumbass." Reaching over, Collins grabbed the door and pulled it shut as the blond man laughed and waved.

"You aren't alone," he said with a sad sigh. As Collins vanished into the traffic, Roger looked back around at his apartment building. Several stories high, it had a way of disappeared among the surrounding housing complexes. Paint often described as the color of baby poop brown chipped off, revealing the flat white base, and even the bare wood itself. Graffiti covered the majority of the walls in the area, and many windows were boarded up. "Home sweet home."

Testing his legs, Roger found himself amazingly stable. His head still pounded and his muscles were sore, but at least the itching had faded to only a minor distraction that nagged at the back of his mind. Dodging pedestrians, Roger stepped into the dark lobby and made the trick up the rickety stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor. The creaking beneath his feet always made the young man doubt the wisdom of turning down Mark and Benny's offer of staying with them in the loft instead of his own decrepit little studio apartment. Mice and cockroaches infest the entire building, but the artist on the fourth floor had a suspicion that they had established a headquarters in his room.

Opening the door to his room, Roger was surprised to find a light on in the kitchen. He closed the door slowly as he called out "Hello? Is someone here? April?" Maybe she had come by last night when he was out.

There was a note on his counter. It was short and scrawled. Down in the bottom corner was what appeared to be a dried tear drop. i Roger, we've got AIDS. I'm sorry and I love you. April /i 

It didn't make sense. When had April gone to get tested? Why had she gone? Why didn't she say anything? Roger lowered the note to the counter and tried to makes sense of it. The fact that he had AIDS was bad enough. Terrifying, in fact. Formerly steady legs began to tremble and Roger had to lean his full weight on the counter as a particularly painful truth descended on him.

It was his fault. It was because of his dumb fucking habit that the two of them were infected.

Maybe it was wrong.

But the paperwork was right beside his elbow, opened with the results circled in red ink.

There was no way it could have been just April, that they didn't share the disease; she was clean and didn't cheat on Roger. He was the one who had infected them. Only he could take the blame.

Fighting back tears, the desolate rocker straightened. He had to find April. The two of them would work through this together. Together they could fight the disease, support each other, and love each other. But first he had to find her.

Something in his hallway caught his attention. Turning, Roger saw what looked to be a hand lying out of the bathroom door. Panic seized his heart and Roger dashed down the hall, falling to his knees with an anguished cry.

Lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood was April. Beautiful wavy chestnut brown hair was matted with dried blood, soft brow eyes that used to glitter with passion and love were cold and blank. Both of her golden wrists were slit, the wounds crusted in a deep reddish brown that matched the dry puddle on the floor. A razor blade rested in her left hand.

His breath came in short, painful gasps as he tried to understand the scene spread before him. The one woman he had ever dared to love was not only dead in his bathroom at her own hand, but it was because of him. It was because of the disease that he had given her. As the emotions and disbelief washed over Roger and threatened to drown what little spirit was left in him, he pulled the stiff, cold body into his lap. Rigor mortis had set in hours before, but he still desperately tried to hold her against his chest. Maybe if he could just warm her up...maybe she'd wake up...but to no avail.

Weeping, Roger rocked back and forth, begging incoherently for her to wake up, for it to be a dream, for her forgiveness, for the disease to go away. All these things came in turn, in one big cycle that continued for hours.

Around four, Roger passed out from exhaustion and pain, both emotional and physical. He was sprawled on the floor, his head and arms protruding into the living room. That was how Collins found him when he entered the small apartment after knocking repeatedly.

"Aw, shit," Tom muttered as he hurried to Roger's side. "You fucking dumbass, I can't believe you--"but his tirade was cut short at the sight of April's very dead corpse lying in Roger's lap. He pulled the body away, closing his mind to the image to keep from weeping until after the body had been dealt with. In his strong arms, he carried Roger to his bed, stripped him of his soiled clothing, and tucked him into bed. After closing the door, he phoned the police, then the loft apartment.

"Hello?" he heard Benny say on the other end.

"Benny? It's Collins." His voice was thick and heavy.

"Yeah? Collins, what's wrong?" Benny waved his hand at Mark and Maureen who were bombarding him with questions.

"I...there's...April..." Collins took a shuddering breath and tried again. "I'm at Roger's. We...he found April...she's...April's dead."

The other end of the line was silent for a very long time. So long that Collins almost feared he had lost the connection until he finally heard, "Oh God" whispered on the other end. "We'll be right there. Where's Roger? Is there anything you need?"

"Roger is asleep for now, and I think we need some--" The note on the counter suddenly registered in his mind. The phone fell from his fingers and landed on the counter with a loud clatter. From the ear piece he heard "...shit!...what...going...Collins!" The black man picked up the phone again and said softly "Bring some cleaning supplies and some strong alcohol. Roger...Roger's got AIDS."

"We'll be right ove--he i what /i ?!" Benny nearly shouted into the phone.

"I'll see you when you get here. I have to go talk to Roger." Without waiting for a response, Collins hung up the phone and looked up to see Roger standing in the living room, leaning on the wall and staring at him with blank eyes. "Roger! You're...you're up."

"Yeah." His voice was thick, almost hard to understand. "Collins, I...April...I gave her..." He couldn't form the words to explain just what had happened.

"I know. I read the note...Roger..." Collins was struck by such emotion that he couldn't bring himself to speak either. The two men stood in silence, trying to find words to comfort or explain. "The police will be here in a few minutes...do you..."

"Please...can you...I can't...I couldn't...there aren't any..." Arms crossed over his chest, Roger stared down at the floor surrounding his feet. "We have AIDS. Her and I. It's my fault." He sighed a little, as if giving up.

"Roger, don't--" Collins started.

"No. Let me. If I don't...I'll never get it out. I may not find the words again. Please. Just...let me talk." When Collins nodded a little, Roger sighed again and continued. "It's...it's because of me that she's dead. If I hadn't been such a fucking asshole...if I hadn't...she wouldn't be dead right now. We wouldn't be having this conversation. I wouldn't...I wouldn't be alone...and..." Roger lost his ability to speak and his knees gave way beneath him. Sinking to the floor, he began to sob, his entire body shaking.

It was only a matter of seconds before Collins was kneeling beside him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Roger...hush...it's going to be all right."

But Roger was inconsolable. He continued to sob into Collins' chest, clinging desperately to him. He rocked back and forth, weeping and begging for the black man to make it better, to heal his pain.

Back in the loft, Benny still sat and stared at the phone. Mark finally shook him roughly enough to break him from his reverie. "Benny! What's wrong? What's wrong with Roger?"

"Roger...Roger's got AIDS...and...April's...April's dead."

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and Roger locked himself in April's apartment. He couldn't stand being in his own, it felt look much like she was watching him. Several times, the guilt of causing her death almost drove him to his own suicide. Roger refused to answer the phone or the door, no matter how often they called or how loudly they knocked.

On that particular morning, Roger was sprawled on the floor of the kitchen, a needle in one hand and his stash in the other. Blank, dark eyes stared up at the ceiling as he slowly turned his head to focus his eyes on the needle. His other hand lifted to bring the powder over when his sleeve drifted down his arm, drawing his attention to it. Roger looked at his bared arm and stared at his track marks; he actually stared at them and saw them for what they were. A thought brushed past his mind and the man dropped the needle with a soft clatter.

Rising from the floor, the heroine hanging loosely from his fingers, Roger walked to the bathroom, his feet scuffing the floor, and stared at himself in the mirror. Collins was right; he looked like shit. His skin was pale and waxy, his hair was lifeless, and there were dark circles beneath blank eyes. Lifting the fine white powder, Roger stared at it for a long moment before hurling it against the mirror with a loud, anguished scream and slamming his hands down onto the counter. "Fuck," he said; the first word he had spoken in weeks. "I can't do this anymore...and I can't do it alone."

Stumbling from the bathroom, Roger collected what small amount of clothing he had and threw them into a bag. With one last scan over, avoiding the guitar in the corner that April bought him under the command that he write a song for her (which he never did), Roger turned off the light and closed the door for the last time.

Weaving through people with amazingly nimble feet, Roger made his way to the loft apartment. "Mark! Mark!" he screamed.

The ash blond leaned out the window, shocked. "Roger? Roger! What are you doing here?" Maureen appeared behind Mark, looking incredibly disheveled.

"Throw down the key!"

"But why--"

"Just throw down the key! I need your help!" A small suede bag dropped down into his waiting grasp and he dashed inside.

Arriving at the top of the stairs, Roger burst into the door to Mark and Maureen waiting expectantly for him. "What the hell is this all about, Roger? Why do you have a bag packed?"

"I...I need your help. I need to...to go to a--"

"Roger?" Collins stepped out of his room, looking vaguely confused. "Well, look at you, up and out." He smiled a little and gave him a once over. "Did hell run you over with a mack truck or something?"

"Or something."

"Where do you need to go, Roger?" Maureen asked, still hovering expectantly behind Mark.

"A rehab." The room went silent. Every pair of eyes was locked on him for several long moments.

"A rehab? Are you serious?" Collins stepped around the couch, a surprised smile brightening his eyes.

"Yes. I caused April's death, I'm the one who infected us. It was my fucking addiction that did this; it's time I dealt with it." The duffel bag fell to the floor with a muffled thump. "But...I can't do it alone. I need you guys..."

"We wouldn't expect you to, honey." Maureen smiled brightly and moved to take Roger in to a warm hug. The man wept openly on her shoulder, sharing his grief for the first time since April's funeral.


	2. So let her be a lesbian

"Pookie, we need to talk." Maureen stood in the middle of the living room, her long, curly brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She looked sleep-deprived, which was fairly accurate; she hadn't come in until four that morning and crawled into bed. Mark, fully aware she was late, and fully aware of why, rolled away from her and snuggled down into his pillow.

"That would be an understatement," he returned sullenly, stepping from the kitchen in a pair of loose khaki pants with a button-down shirt unbuttoned. He really was scrawny, but less-so than most people assumed. In one hand he held a glass of milk, in the other was a pair of underwear that was much too small to fit Maureen's generous rear end. "Last I checked, these weren't yours."

There was a moment's pause before the woman sighed. "They're not. They belong to Susanne, a woman I met at a bar."

"When?"  
  
"About a month ago."

"How long ago was the last time she was here?"  
  
"Three days ago."

"Three--Maureen, that was the night you were supposed to meet my folks! You were screwing some other woman while I was having the dinner you and I were supposed to be sharing with my -parents-! I had to take Roger with me so that I didn't waste a plane ticket, and now my grandmother is entirely convinced that I am gay!" The blond dropped the underwear onto the floor and turned his back on the woman he thought he loved.  
  
"Pookie-"  
  
"Don't. Don't call me that." Both of his wide hands he planted on the edge of the counter as Mark let his head hang, dark blue eyes closed as he tried to control his temper.

"Mark, then. I'm sorry, Mark, but you know how people react to me. And I just love it, and...and I want more of it. People are always flirting with me, and...sometimes I can't turn them down."

"Well, you should learn how to do that, Maureen! When you're in a relationship, you're in a relationship with -one person-! Not the whole damn city of New York!" Flushed with rage, Mark spun on Maureen. "You and I have shared an apartment for almost six months now, I moved out of the loft with Roger, leaving him -alone- in his rehab! And now you're cheating on me! What the fuck do you think you are doing, Maureen? You know what, I'm done with this! I am finished, I'm fed up with it. Unless you can promise me that this won't happen again, I'm packing my bag." He waited for a long time, crossing his arms and glaring at Maureen, who seemed to have wilted.  
  
"All right, Mark. I promise. Will you forgive me?" Her head tipped low, she peered up at Mark through long, thick eyelashes.  
  
Holding out for a long time, Mark finally let his body relax a little. "Of course I forgive you, Maureen. How could I not when you look at me like that?"  
  
Grinning, Maureen bounded across the small space and wrapped her arms around Mark's neck, kissing him passionately and taking his breath away as she did every time. "Thank you, Marky..." she purred, nuzzling him tenderly. "Are you...busy...at the moment?"

"Not anymore," he smiled, dipping his girlfriend and kissing her just as passionately.

"Dammit, Maureen!" Mark shouted to the empty apartment. He had returned home early to hear a very...interesting...message on the machine; the sound of two women making love. One of them had shouted Maureen's name, and then he'd heard a very familiar sound; Maureen's orgasm. Enraged, he had picked up the answering machine and hurled it at the wall, feeling only slightly better when it shattered into a hundred-odd pieces and landed on the floor.  
  
Sitting in the center of the floor, Mark rested his chin on his hands and stared blankly at the wall. It had only been a month since they had argued about Maureen's infidelity. He couldn't believe that she had broken her promise in such a short amount of time. The deep, soul-wrenching fear that Maureen was actually a lesbian, and was simply keeping him around as a living dildo once again surfaced, filling his mind with doubts and concerns once more.  
  
The phone rested on his lap, and he shifted his gaze down to it and sighed. He knew he should call Roger, since he had returned home just a little while ago, and was currently under the watch of the engaged Benny. But Mark was seriously concerned about the repercussions, and the crap he was going to get from Roger. Then again, he had to tell someone.  
  
With a sigh, Mark lifted the phone and dialed the number to the loft apartment. After a couple of rings, the message machine kicked in. "It's Roger. I'm listening. Maybe." There was a click, and Mark sighed a little. "Hey there, Rog. It's...it's me. You're probably ignoring me, so...call me or something." Just as he was about to hang up, he heard another click.

"Mark? What's wrong, buddy? You sound a little down and out." Roger.  
  
"Something like that." He sighed again and rubbed at his temples. "Do...do you have some time to talk, Rog?"  
  
"Of course. Do you want to talk over the phone, or do you wanna come here?" The sound of a fire crackling could be heard over the receiver.

"I think I'll come there, if you don't mind. I'll be there in about an hour or so." Mark had made his decision, and now just needed to get off of his ass.

"Sure. I'll be here. It's not like I have anywhere else to go." He laughed a little and bade his friend farewell before hanging up the phone.  
  
Letting the phone fall to the floor, Mark bit back a sob and rose to find himself facing Maureen. She held out a suitcase to him, full of his clothing. "Here."

"Kicking me out?" Keep yourself composed...  
  
"Well, you were going to leave anyway, and I need the room."

"For what?" Mark took his suitcase and walked past Maureen to grab another box to put his possessions in.  
  
"The woman I am in love with." The suitcase fell to the floor with a thump. "I'm a lesbian, Mark."  
  
"...I see." It wasn't nearly as easy to hold back his tears when he heard her actually say those words. "Well then...I guess I'd better hurry up." He walked away from Maureen, not even bothering to listen to her quiet apology.  
  
Trying to be careful so as not to break anything in his rage, Mark gathered all of his possessions that mattered; clothing, manuscripts, and his precious camera. Once all of those were ready to go, after about ten minutes, he hoisted them from the bed and headed for the door. Pausing to grab his suitcase, Mark couldn't bear to look at the woman; instead, he just walked out the door, leaving his key on the end of the bed.

It was a long walk to the loft apartment, but Mark didn't care. He had no money on him, and he didn't want a cab anyway. The walk was needed, so he could figure out just what to say to Roger. It wasn't like he could just ask to move back in; he'd abandoned his friend when he needed him most because of a woman. Who liked other women, it turned out.  
  
This was not going to look good.  
  
About an hour later, Mark stood at the bottom of the apartment, staring up past the peeling paint to the dark window of his old loft. People walked around him, not really noticing him standing in the middle of the sidewalk, frozen. "Roger!" he shouted. "Hey, Roger!"  
  
Roger's head appeared out the window, smiling. "Hey buddy. Catch." The small tan pouch fell from the window, landing in Mark's waiting hand. "Come on up." Nodding slowly, Mark headed inside.

Mark was curled up on the couch, his suitcase and box back in his old bedroom again. Roger was perched on the edge of the table, his forearms resting on his knees. "...so, it turns out she's a lesbian, and her new girlfriend is moving in with her in the next few days."  
  
"I wish there was something I could tell you to make you feel better, Mark, but I know that there isn't."  
  
"Not really. But it isn't personal or anything." Lying his head back, Mark stared at the rough wood ceiling.

Shrugging a little, Roger slid off the table and wandered across the room. "I take it you need somewhere to sleep tonight?"

"Just for the night, if you don't mind." He sighed and reached for a pillow to bury his face in. "I hate to be a burden."  
  
"This place is a tomb with just me around here. Why don't you move back in? It's not like you have another apartment." Roger turned and shrugged at his friend. "I'm not exactly the most inspiring person to live with anymore, but...I could still use the company."

"Are you sure? I mean, I won't be a burden or anything?"  
  
"No. You'll provide more money for groceries and firewood."  
  
"You know that I'm utterly broke, right? Maureen was making all the money." His blue eyes peered over the edge of the pillow, looking quite pathetic.

"Well, then, I guess we'll starve. Come on, Mark! Just move the fuck in!" Picking up his guitar, Roger sat down on the table again, his back to Mark as he stared at the strings he hadn't even dared look at for over six months. "...I miss you." A sign of weakness wasn't something Roger showed particularly often, especially after April's death over a year ago.

"Yeah...I guess..." Mark said with a sad sigh, letting the pillow fall to the floor. "Is your guitar tuned?"

"Not yet." One hand rose to lightly stroke to strings, just barely whispering over them before he hastily set aside the instrument and rose. His tension and apprehension were written all over his posture, and the man turned away from his precious guitar to look at his blond friend. "Are you moving back in or not?"  
  
"Well, I don't have anywhere else to go. Besides, I work better here than I ever did at Maureen's." Shrugging a little, Mark rose from the couch and patted Roger on the shoulder before he headed for the bedroom. "Have you taken your AZT?"  
  
"No. My beeper--" Suddenly, there was a loud beeping from a small square contraption on the kitchen counter. "--hasn't gone off yet." Roger grumbled unintelligibly about the drugs and his life as he trudged over to the kitchen. "Are you sure you moved out?"

"Ha! All too sure. Take your AZT and stop bitching."


End file.
